Three Times Jean Was Cold, and One Time He Wasn't
by ZeMadame
Summary: Sometimes, at the strangest times, Jean will feel inexplicably chilled. Marco, as it turns out, is sassy in his refusal to be forgotten. Not that Jean would, anyway. JeanMarco.


The first time Jean felt the unusual chill was the day he found Marco's corpse. Before his eyes drifted to his right to rest in world wracking recognition on his mangled body, he felt a strange coolness settle over his eyes. It pressed into the cracks of his eyelids, between his brows, across the bridge of his nose. It was curious, this frosty sensation with no explanation. He figured that maybe it was exhaustion, or an errant burst of wind, or maybe it was just his imagination. He turned his head to the body on the ground, his eyes widening in recognition, and his blood ran colder than the feeling over his eyes.

_I didn't want you to see me like this._

The second time it happened, it was the middle of summer. His sweaty palms gripped the handles of this maneuver gear, ignoring the heat of the metal against his fingers. Jean waited with the rest of his unit, waiting for the lumbering seven meter class Titan to lurch closer, between the buildings where they would be able to take it out. The sun beat down on everything; no clouds lingered from the night before to provide any relief. It glared in their eyes and made them sweat, dried out their throats and noses and eyes. As the Titan drew closer, Jean brought the handle to his mouth and kissed it, his eyes fluttering closed.

He gasped, drawing back and gazing intently at his equipment. The metal was frigid! How was it possible? It was so miserably hot out; he readjusted the grip on his other handle, but it was still very warm to the touch. He brushed his fingers over the metal, but it was just as warm as the other once more.

_I miss your lips, and everything attached to them._

Jean was leaning against the fence of the pasture that his horse, a sweet dapple grey mare, was currently grazing in. He'd taken to watching the horses in any rare bit of spare time he could find. He found peace in watching them flick their tails across their flanks, comforted by their warm brown eyes that never questioned, much like Marco's had been. These days, only Jaeger would tease him about being with 'his people', and it was far more good-natured than it had been in the past. Jean would come here to think, to miss Marco, to re-energize the facade of breathing easily. Bent over the wooden railing, his chin in the palm of his hand, he watched the almost-too-warm summer breeze roll across the grass, ruffling manes and causing a few foals to frisk around their mothers.

He yelped suddenly, whirling around, his hand covering his rear. It felt like he'd just sat down on a solid block of ice, not unlike the ice luge that Sasha had somehow acquired last New Year. He was grateful that none of his team was around to hear his very undignified screech; Eren wouldn't have let him live that one down. Rubbing the back of his neck, he sighed and turned back to the horses, stroking the nose of his mare, who had trotted over to him. His free hand lingered by his hip, and he smiled at how silly he was behaving.

_Your ass always did look great in that uniform._

The battle raged on around him; he could hear his unit shouting to one another amongst the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a feral roar ripped through the forest. Eren had shifted to his Titan body, apparently. He could probably move through the frosty forest quicker that way. Their grapple hooks were, more often than not, bouncing off the trunks of the frost covered trees. The blizzard swirled around them, doing its very best to freeze them solid.

Yet all Jean could think of was how warm he was. His breathing wasn't shallow or painful, his lungs weren't constricted. Warmth blossomed out from his chest, radiating up his neck, down his arms and legs, pooled in his fingers and toes. He wriggled them, almost smiling at how _comfortable_ he felt. He didn't ache, he couldn't feel the dull throb that had taken up residence in the back of his head years ago. His left little finger, which had been broken several months back and healed at an odd angle, no longer caused him pain when he curled his hand into a fist.

He twisted to his feet easily and stretched, just because he felt so _good_. He knew he should get back to the fight, return to his unit. They needed him, but he just couldn't look back in their direction. His mind told him to stop fooling around, but something else told him that they'd be just fine without him. He turned to his right (whatever something it was that told him that his unit would be fine was talking to him again; he rather liked the way it thought, so he took Connie's advice, for once, to just 'go with the flow') and froze.

"Hey, Jean."

Marco stood just a few feet from him, smiling that soft, adorable smile of his. His eyes crinkled as he looked at Jean, and he hunched his shoulders under the other man's intense gaze. Jean exhaled softly, realization falling across his mind like a blanket. He glanced down and touched his chest, then flicked his gaze to Marco again, who nodded solemnly.

"Jean, I-"

He wasn't allowed to finish his sentence, because Jean bum-rushed him, tackling him to the ground. He buried his face into Marco's shoulder, never feeling more grateful to be able to feel the deep vibrations of the other boy's laughter once again. Marco's strong arms wrapped around his back, gripping tightly at his Recon Corps jacket. Maybe it was minutes, maybe it was hours; neither could be sure, but eventually Jean pulled back, straddling Marco's stomach. Marco reached up and touched the side of Jean's face, a soft smile on his face.

"I'm sorry." Jean gripped Marco's hand, grinning like a madman.

"I'm not." Twisting to the side, he rolled off of the brunette and landed with a thump on the ground. Marco pushed himself to his feet gracefully, extending his tanned hand to Jean. Smiling broadly, Jean accepted it and was promptly hauled off the ground and back into Marco's embrace. Their lips connected, _finally_, slanting against each other in a warm, sunny perfection that Jean had been craving for years. Jean's hands cradled Marco's face, long fingers teasing his earlobes on either side. When they parted, Marco's smile was wide enough to crack a star in two and Jean wanted nothing more than to melt into him.

He was warm enough in Marco's embrace that he thought he might do just that.


End file.
